


my heart held a ledger

by cynical_optimist, strangetowns



Series: every breath you steal (is a breath i breathe for you) [1]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, SKAM Secret Santa, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_optimist/pseuds/cynical_optimist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/pseuds/strangetowns
Summary: Isak huffs out a short laugh. “Wasn't all bad, anyway.” He opens his eyes, shooting Even a sidelong look that lingers. “Right?”All the breath rushes out of Even’s lungs, at that. “Yeah?”“I met you.” Now Isak tilts his head back toward the sky, the long slender line of his throat exposed. “That's not bad, is it?”-A hitmen AU, wherein Isak and Even hate their jobs but love each other.(2/5/2018 - this 'verse is now on permanent hiatus. Please seethis postfor details. The fic itself can still be enjoyed as a standalone oneshot however!)





	my heart held a ledger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [folerdetdufoler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/folerdetdufoler/gifts).



> A gift for [Kerry](http://folerdetdufoler.tumblr.com/), for the SKAM Secret Santa exchange! This is a pinch hit, which is why we (two of the mods) are writing it, and why there are two of us (aside from the fact that we really love collaborating). We've also created a [playlist](http://open.spotify.com/user/strange-towns/playlist/3RgHpBj8v8p57z84QWWXVu) to accompany this, for extra feels. Check it out, if you’re so inclined!
> 
> Heed the tags; further warnings are in the endnotes.
> 
> Apologies in advance for all the angst, and thanks to [Crystal](http://www.pronouncingitwang.tumblr.com) and [Lauren](http://www.call-this-a-mask.tumblr.com) for editing <3
> 
> Credit to the comic [Griefer Belt](http://grieferbeltcomic.com/) as a loose inspiration for this (but seriously you should all go read it, it's awesome), and to the song "[Pneumonia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EL5JDOVbWVI)" by Me Like Bees for the title.
> 
> A very Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to you all <3

Even makes a quiet entrance two minutes before the tall, wooden doors of the concert hall close, feet almost silent on the carpeted floor. The attendant, one of only ten people left in the entrance hall, takes his ticket with what seems like a genuine smile; he wonders, absently, how long she’s been working in customer service, how soon that expression will fade into something more forced.

“Have a lovely night,” she says, and Even smiles back, just polite enough to be quickly forgotten. He knows he fits in with everyone else here, dressed to the nines with no hair out of place, even if none of the other guests have knives under their clothing and enough experience hiding them to make them near-undetectable.

They’re not here for his reasons, though, either; they’re all here, in some form or another, to listen to a symphony and talk about their lives. Even can’t remember the last time he did anything just to do it, steps uncalculated and no ulterior motive to speak of; even now, his every facial expression is carefully regulated into what his cover identity would be doing or saying, how he would react to anything he comes across.

The man he is here for, the man now marked for death, is already in the hall, tall but plain, nervous, and ultimately forgettable; the short scar above his eye from walking into a pole when he was a teen, fingers stained just a little from cramped hours holding a pen. Even’s memorised every detail he could find on him, just as he always does for jobs like this.

He steps forward to find his seat. It’s two rows down, so he doesn’t have a hundred people he doesn’t trust at his back, but it’s not so far back that he has no one between the back of his head and the doors. A couple grumbles as they pull their legs back to let him down the row, but he smiles at them, a little harried. He throws himself into his seat with all the relieved abandon of one who’s almost missed something they’ve been looking forward to for months, and turns to his left.

“Fucking taxi got lost,” he says, breathy, and his mark’s eyes widen. “Can you believe I almost missed this?”

“Um,” says John Grey, taken off guard but not annoyed. The doors close behind them, and Even lets his smile settle a little into something more relaxed.

“Oh, sorry,” Even says, holding out a hand, “I’m Romeo.”

He hears something like a cough or a choke through his earpiece, like Isak had gone to take a sip of water and failed miserably.

“ _ I forgot that was your cover name _ ,” Isak coughs, and something in Even unravels at the sound of his voice, like a spool of thread or a spider’s web. He doesn’t smile or laugh or let anything on his face betray his amusement; years in the business have taught him that marks don’t respond that well to jokes they can’t hear.

“John Grey,” says John Grey, and Even keeps his gaze on him, notes the way pink dusts his cheekbones after just a few seconds of him staring. “You enjoy this sort of thing?”

“My mother and I have come a couple times a year since I was ten,” he replies, the cover story he had carefully put together over the past week sitting neatly on his tongue. “You?”

“My first time.” His mark looks toward the stage, face open and hopeful, like he’s only seen bits and pieces of the world and liked most of what he’s found, then back to Even. “My sister and I were coming together, but she had to cancel last minute.”

“What a coincidence,” Even says. “My mother couldn’t make it either.” He lets the silence linger for a beat, then two, every millisecond calculated, before adding, “I suppose we’re both here alone, then.”

“Or,” John begins, then blushes, stopping, breaking eye contact to look at the orchestra.

“Or?” Even asks, like he’s curious but not, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear what he’ll say. First violin walks onstage, and lights over the audience dim; he leans closer to the mark, close enough that his breath ruffles the hair by his ear. “Or we can be alone together?” he suggests, and when he leans back the mark’s cheeks are highlighted in red.

He settles in his seat, and takes a long breath in, then out, unshaking. When he looks down at his arms in the dim light, immaculately clad in something expensive and almost unnecessary for a mission like this, his hands are still.

The tuning instruments sound a little chilling, like a soft, musical scream, but he doesn’t shiver, doesn’t let himself.

He is still, and he half turns toward his mark, face bright and excited and everything Even is not, and smiles.

During the concert he keeps up the persona, not letting it slip even when Isak interjects over his earpiece to make comments about the temperature, the uncomfortable position he’s in, how long he has to wait there until Even lures the mark into position. He’s not actually that uncomfortable, Even knows, at least not with the hideout he’s found, but it keeps both of them occupied, keeps their minds from wandering.

“ _ Jesus _ ,” Isak says. “ _ Who the hell decided that rooftops are an ideal roost for snipers? _ ” He was the one who chose that location, though, and also apparently the one that underestimated how many layers he needed to protect himself from the wind. The person in front of Even shifts slightly, but they’re just settling in his seat, and he looks again at his mark before turning his gaze back to the performance.

John is captivated by the performance, but he catches Even looking and blinks, swallowing. Even makes sure to repeat this look exactly three times during the first half; at intermission, he remains in his seat and his mark does the same.

“So,” Even asks, quiet but not overly so, as concertgoers drift in and out of the hall, “you said your sister couldn’t make it? Why is that?”

“She couldn’t get anyone to cover for her at work,” John grimaces, and Even hums in understanding, as if he hadn’t already known. “She insisted I come anyway; I would’ve brought my niece, but it’s a little past her bedtime.”

Even smiles as though charmed, tasting chalk in the back of his throat as he asks, “A niece? How old is she?”

John smiles, fond, looking lopsided and human and alive. “In her terrible twos,” he replies. “I don’t have to deal with her most of the time though, so.”

Nodding, Even turns a little so that he’s facing his mark almost head-on. “So you have a sister and a niece…” He pauses, then says, slow, “Anyone else? A significant other…?”

“Nobody,” he replies, too quickly, and Even lets a smile spread over his face, then looks down, as though suddenly shy.

“Me neither,” he says, and when he settles back down in his seat he leaves his arm so that it’s half-brushing John’s.

He almost wants Isak to say something here, to interject with a comment about how that wasn’t as smooth as he thinks it was, to make fun of him or his mark or  _ anything _ . To reassure him, maybe, because he’s fast losing his resolve. Hearing Isak speak always puts him back on track, not because he’s any more convinced than Even that this is right, but because Even knows who the consequences fall onto if hits fail.

He won’t say anything, though, not when Even is so deep in character and so close to getting what he needs from the mark. Even isn’t sure if he keeps time or just  _ knows _ when he should stop making stupid comments over the earpieces, can feel innately when it’ll throw Even out of character and end the job far too early for their employer’s taste. It’s easy, almost, the way that they work together; there’s communication and trial and error but they’re comfortable in each other, fitting almost like clockwork. Even will have to start over again soon, and the thought of it scratches at his heart like an itch he can’t quite shake.

“Oh,” John says, then swallows again, and turns toward Even, face open and determined. “Do you… maybe want to get a drink or something, after this?”

Even makes a show of looking at his watch. “Maybe not drinks,” he says, and then, hurried, “but... a walk?”

“Okay,” he replies. “Yeah, that sounds great.” The performance is starting again, and Even nods at him once before turning his gaze back to the stage; he keeps his attention on the way his mark carefully nudges his arm closer, their littlest fingers almost overlapping.

-

The gardens by the concert hall are close to abandoned at this time of night, the tops of the trees strung with fairy lights, bushes half-spilling onto the meandering path. To many, it’s incredibly romantic and the perfect way to end a date. Even might have thought that way, once, if his entire life had gone differently; as it is, it’s heaven and a nightmare all wrapped up in one. Everywhere he turns is a dark corner where anything could be hidden, and he keeps one hand within easy range of a weapon, just in case, as he leads them down a carefully calculated path, designed to look aimless.

The other he brushes periodically against his mark, fingers catching as they walk and talk, conversation every bit as calculated as the direction they’re going.

“So you’re a journalist?” Even asks, light and curious. “Must be cool.”

John shrugs. “Oh, you know,” he says. “A lot of it is research, and deadlines are pretty harsh, but I love it.”

“I’m glad you have a job you love,” Even says, though the thought of it, of this mark having a family and a life and things he loves doing, of being a person that Even is choosing himself over, makes him sick to his stomach. If he was less selfish-- or maybe more-- he’d tell him to run now, to find a way to hide his identity until the people after him get what they want.

He doesn’t, though, and that’s probably what Even hates most about this job, about himself, about his family; despite everything, he’s choosing to perform the role he was born for, with a million reasons and justifications that fall flat and dry whenever he remembers them.

“Any big stories?” Even asks, casual and curious.

For half a second, his mark’s face brightens, but he’s careful to school it back to something resembling blank. He’d be terrible at poker, Even thinks, almost wry; it feels unkind to think it, especially when he’s already taking his life away. It’s unfair to be rude to him in his final hours, even within his own mind.

“Oh, not really,” his mark says. “A couple stories, here and there; celebrity fluff pieces.”

“Really?” Even asks, still fond and enthusiastic, bringing them to a stop in a quiet, secluded corner, perfect for short breaks from walking and quiet assassinations. He hasn’t seen anyone for the last ten minutes, every other concertgoer wise enough not to risk driving too late at night. “You seem like you have more going on inside your head than that.”

John blushes, and Even takes half a step closer, brushing his fingers a little closer to the mark’s; if he were to glance up and to the left, he could spot the building that Isak is sitting atop, waiting for the information that could end this job or begin another. He doesn’t, but he wants to.

“I mean,” he says. “There’s a story I’m working on, but it’s sort of secret, you know? Unpublished, not even edited.”

“Yeah?” Even asks, heart hitting his ribs once and then twice, painful and too quick in succession. “I can keep a secret.”

“I don’t know…”

He won’t push too hard, won’t show his hand, but he steps back, letting his arms fall to his sides and spread. “Who am I going to tell?” he asks. “Come on, John, I’m curious.” His smile is broad and flirty and just dangerous enough to not be suspicious; Even knows because he’s spent hours practicing into a mirror while Isak cleaned his guns and teased him for his vanity.

His mark folds his arms, leaning back against a tree, and his nose wrinkles as he thinks. After a moment, he shrugs again, and smiles. “I mean…” he says, “I guess I can keep an eye on you over these next couple of weeks, make sure this isn’t just corporate espionage.”

“I could tolerate that,” Even replies, toning the smile down to something softer. “We can meet for coffee tomorrow.”

“In the afternoon?” he suggests. “I’m catching up with my sister in the morning.”

Even nods, tastes ash; he hates when marks have families. “Sounds great,” he says, then: “So… what’s the story?”

“Okay,” his mark says, open and earnest and far too good for Even to kill with a clear conscience. Then again, Even’s not sure if his conscience has ever been clear, or if the moment he came into the world screaming was already marred by steadily growing expectations and weighted legacies.

“It’s sort of scary, actually,” John begins, and Even nods. “There’s this businessman in Norway, right? Very successful,  _ very _ rich, dead wife and one son. He seems pretty standard on the surface.” Even nods again, still tasting chalk. “Except, he’s almost  _ too successful _ . Definitely too rich for what his company makes, but all the audits come up fine. And people keep dying, right, or disappearing, and they’re never big deaths but no one, not even the police, are making any sort of fuss. It’s always people that pose a problem to him or seem to get too close to -- to  _ something _ . I mean, the story isn’t airtight; I wish I had more evidence and it’s happening in a totally different country, but I feel like it’s important, you know? There’s far too much there for nothing to be going on.”

“Shit, really?” Even says, though he knows every word of the story he’s telling inside and out.

“I know! And he’s connected to all of them, if loosely, and I know,” he blushes and looks down. “I know it might be a bit of a reach, but I have some good research to back it up, and I’m convinced I’m right.” He laughs, a little airy. “Shit, you’re the first person I’ve told.”

“Wow,” Even says, eyes wide and stance open. “That’s pretty intense. Did you have, like, an inside source, or?”

“No, no one,” John replies, and this time he’s a little proud, too, and he should be, just as much as he should be terrified out of his wits. “I tried to track down the son, but he’s incredibly elusive.” Something in Even’s lungs seem to crack a little in a sudden panic. “There are some sources that sort of suggest he might be more sympathetic -- there’s some shadiness around the mother’s death, you see. And he hasn’t been seen in public with his father for  _ years _ ; hasn’t been seen  _ at all _ in public since he was a young teen, pretty much. Some people think he might be dead too, and he’s so quiet he might as well be. Finding him was a dead end, so I came up with this all on my own, I’m afraid.”

“ _ I have the shot _ ,” Isak, who’s been listening carefully to their entire conversation, says. Even breathes, swallows.

“Honestly,” says Even, truthful for the first time, words raw in his throat. “I believe every word.”

“Thank you,” John replies. “Look for my name in the bylines in the next little while, I suppose.”

“I will,” Even says, though there’ll be no need to. He takes John’s hand, brushes his thumb over his fingers; it’s the most substantial contact they’ve had all night, and, after a moment, he steps back, and then nods.

Isak’s shot is clean and precise, right through the side of his head, and Even doesn’t think that John felt a thing in his final moments. He catches the body before it falls, drags it carefully a little further into the bushes. His heart is rattling around in his chest, pounding so hard that he thinks his lungs might be bruising, but he deserves it.

“I’m sorry,” he tells the body of John Grey, dressed in his very best clothes and alone at a symphony because his sister was working. He didn’t know not to look too far into certain people, not to trust handsome strangers luring him into secluded gardens, and that was his greatest fault. Even wonders how long it’ll take his sister to start wondering what’s happened to him, if it’ll be the lack of a text after the concert, if she’ll sit in the coffee shop  tomorrow with a two-year-old for hours before she goes home, frightened and frantic and furious.

Even takes a long breath, turns his gaze to Isak’s rooftop instead. He can imagine, now, how still he is; how focused. He’d be carefully packing up everything he brought with him, disguising every trace, and not a hint of emotion would show on his face. Even’s seen it before, has seen behind it to the guilt-ridden and desperate boy underneath. He wonders if it’s different this time, if there’s a shameful relief in the end of this particular job, if it makes Isak feel better or worse or both. Even isn’t sure, yet, what he feels about it, about the deadline and the freedom this end brings.

He breathes again, in and out, feeling the way his lungs press at his ribs, and pulls out his phone to dial in a number.

“Yo,” Elias says, voice clear over the line, and Even wonders briefly how he stands it, whether every aspect of the job suffocates him as much as it does Even. He doesn’t think anyone he calls a friend is in this business willingly, but he’s never asked Elias what keeps him.

“It’s done, you’re on cleanup,” he says, and hangs up, just as always, just as protocol demands. This, more than anything, is a time for obeying protocol, and he turns from the corner down the path, checking his cuffs for blood.

They’re clean, which feels a little ironic, and he pulls at them like the action will reveal something he hasn’t yet managed to see. Still clean, perfectly pressed and fitted, part of a carefully curated image that makes him look unsuspicious and innocent, even trustworthy. His face is clear of any emotion, he knows, neutral and unaffected, as though he’s simply someone taking a late night walk, motivated by no more than a touch of whimsy.

By morning, the body will be gone, as will any trace as to where John Grey was tonight. Police investigations will reach dead ends wrapped in red tape, and eventually it will be determined that this man had enough of his life and decided to up and run to another state, or even country. His sister will be asked, quietly but forcefully, to leave well enough alone, and the investigation will end without justice, without peace or restitution; it does every time.

Even feels, briefly, like he might be plastic, everything in him seized up and unmoving.

The moment stretches into eternity and then passes, and Even takes a breath, blinks, and heads back to the hotel.

-

It's crammed between two much taller buildings, light of the lobby barely visible from the narrow alleyway Even’s currently standing in, with a slanted roof that looks like it needs a little repairing, or maybe a lot. A seedy affair, but then, it always is. In their earlier days, buoyed by the adrenaline of jobs well done and the lure of freshly earned cash, they'd dabbled in the most expensive locales they could afford, thousand thread count bed sheets and people paid to dote on your every need and showers so large and luxuriant you could almost fool yourself into thinking they'd help wash your sins away. Since then, though, they've learned - in multiple ways, some much harder than others - that it's better to stick with places like the one in front of him. Anonymous places tucked away in corners of maps no one reads. Quiet places where the people who work there know better than to ask questions.

As it is, the only person Even encounters on the way up to their room is the same bored looking teenager who was manning the desk when they checked in earlier - didn't even bat an eyelash at the suspiciously bulky bag Isak was holding, clearly overkill for what's supposed to be a night's stay, which honestly is a skill Even has always marveled at; how much does a person have to see to get to the point where questions aren't even on the table? - and her only answer to his friendly nod is a glassy stare. They must give her ridiculously long shifts, which seems a little unjust. Even makes a mental note to bring up with Isak the idea of a generous tip for her - her tenacity, her silence; most of all how much her job probably fucking sucks, which both of them might know a thing or two about - as he walks up the rickety, graffiti laden stairs.

The first thing Even takes note of when he opens the door to their room is that Isak’s already back, which is good and expected and exactly according to plan. He feels Isak’s presence before he sees him, the chill of the AC blasting from the vents at full force because Isak likes it cold, one lamp on and overhead lights off because he likes it dim. The unmistakable smell of metal and gunpowder throughout the room is faint, but lingering. 

And then Even does see him, hunched over the tiny desk in the corner, miscellaneous and strange-looking rifle parts scattered haphazardly across the surface as Isak cleans the barrel of his gun. This last part is admittedly a significant reason why “no questions asked” is a crucial policy for wherever it is they stay at.

“Hey,” Isak says, barely a flicker of a glance up from his work. Again, this is to be expected. When left to his own devices, he's prone to becoming very intense very quickly.

“Hey,” Even says as he kicks off his shoes, good riddance to the bastards. “What's up?”

Isak jerks his head toward the bedside table. “Made you dinner.”

Even sweeps the room with his gaze - the shabby looking bed with its gaudy red and gold duvet still neatly made, dusty lamp kept off a couple feet away from it, wide window on the opposite wall that provides a second point of access to the room but is also easily defensible, always a plus - and locks onto the steaming cup of instant ramen sitting where Isak indicated. Shrimp, his favorite flavor, and Isak’s too. He knows for a fact they only had one pack left from the last job.

In a few long strides, Even makes his way to the bed and sits on it heavily. He reaches for the cheap wooden chopsticks resting next to the food and snaps them easily in two. He could make some joke about Isak’s staggering incompetence when it comes to cooking -  _ still just know how to use the microwave, Isak? Thought I taught you better than that -  _ but he's said the same thing probably a million times before, and right now he's too tired not to be bothered by his own pathetic attempts at humor falling flat. “Have you eaten yet?” he says, grabbing the ramen cup.

Isak grunts out a noncommittal noise, which in Isak-language means,  _ no. _

Even plunges the chopsticks into the soup, pulling out a good chunk of long noodles that stretch appetizingly from the cup. “Should I head down to the store? Pick up something quick for you?”

“Not hungry,” Isak says shortly. “Not worth your safety being compromised.”

Even sighs inwardly. Can't reason with the guy when he's this far in the zone, so Even's not going to try. Instead, he reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, methodically flicking through the channels until he reaches the cartoons. There's a Pixar movie on, something cute about feelings or some shit, which seems safe enough. Even lets it play.

“Have you taken your meds yet?” Isak says, head still bent over his gun.

Even makes a noise of affirmation. It’s slightly muffled by the ramen he’s currently shoveling into his face, but Isak will understand what it means.

As expected, Isak nods, seeming satisfied with Even’s response. “Are you going to get changed?”

Even looks up at the back of his head. “What, don't think I can rock a suit?” he says around a mouthful of ramen. He's probably already dripped a bunch on this Gucci number or wherever the fuck it's from. He doesn't particularly care.

“You look good in everything,” Isak says in that disarmingly frank way of his, the one where he doesn't even seem to know how his words make Even’s heart turn over itself in his ribcage. “Just figured you'd be more comfortable in something else.”

Even swallows down the noodles. “I'll take a shower after I finish this delicious gourmet meal.”

Isak doesn't take the bait, just nods again and says, quietly, “good.”

It's silent in the room after that, aside from the low drone of the television and the light clink of metal against metal coming from where Isak’s sitting. Even looks down at the cup in his hands, swirling its contents around with his chopsticks. He doesn't ask how Isak knew how grating the fabric of the suit feels against his skin, how the sweat on his back hasn't dried since he put this stupidly expensive shirt on. How every second that passes by makes the tie around his neck feel tighter, and tighter, and tighter - like drowning. At this point, it probably just goes without saying.

That's the thing, really. It was to be expected. It was to be expected, like everything else about this night and Isak, Isak,  _ Isak _ . It was to be expected; Even’s chest feels tight, anyway. But that, at least, is a kind of betrayal he’s used to.

He stands up, stretching his arms high above his head with a loud groan. He can feel Isak’s gaze flickering toward him, as if triggered by instinct. Even makes his way to the desk and sets the ramen cup down by Isak's elbow. “You can have the rest,” he says with a magnanimous wave of his hand.

Isak blinks once, twice. Looks down at the cup, and back at Even.

“But - ” he starts, and halts abruptly, and blinks again. It's horribly endearing. Even’s heart swells under his ribs, despite himself. Despite everything.

“Not hungry,” he says, watching for Isak’s reaction.

A minute shift in his expression, a flicker of something inscrutable in his eyes. Nothing more. Still, Even catalogues the image in the back of his brain, files it away in the box he reserves for all the times he's managed to take Isak aback. They’re few and far in between and therefore all the more precious.

“Okay,” Isak says, voice so soft Even almost misses the word. But he doesn't, and that's what matters.

“Okay,” Even says back. He turns on his heel and makes for the bathroom, but not before twisting his head to look behind him one last time.

Surreptitiously, without sparing it a second glance, Isak cups the side of the plastic bowl with the palm of his hand and slides it in front of him.

Even smiles.

-

He takes longer in the shower than he usually does, mostly because the water pressure is so shitty it takes a while to get all the soap off his body, and even then he can still feel some of the residue in the cracks of his skin, places he'll never be able to reach. Not to mention he's too tall for the shower - to be fair, in places like these he usually is - so he has to stoop under the shower head like some oversized flamingo if he wants to get anywhere with his hair. This makes him feel so stupid he stops doing it after a while, just leans his head back and pretends the lukewarm spray stuttering against his chest feels anything close to good.

He'd close his eyes, but honestly he's a little scared of what he'll find in the darkness behind his eyelids. Call it foolish, call it hopelessly naive, but that one's a fear he's never quite been able to bargain with.

That's something his father's always said. “Fear is something to be bargained with. Nothing more, nothing less.” Even's probably a disappointment in that regard, since he's never been good at bargaining with anything let alone something he can only see inside his own head, but then again he's been a disappointment in pretty much every other regard, too, so it's not like that's anything new. Not like his father has a choice but to put up with him, regardless. Being his only son makes Even the family business’s only heir.

Lucky him.

He reaches for the soap again - second time's the charm, right? - and scrubs it over his shoulders and his chest as he stares up at the stains and grooves in the ceiling. He's not quite sure how those got up there, but he supposes in a place like this, nothing is outside the realm of possibility.

The soap leaps out of his grip and falls into the suddy, half drained water swimming around his ankles. He stoops down to pick it up, knees folding awkwardly against the side of the shower, and weighs it in the palm of his hand. It's the kind of cheap thing you get for a Euro in the back of the convenience store, small and boxy and so slippery against your body that it makes your skin feel like plastic no matter how hard you scrub. He puts it back on the soap rack - more of a shallow indent in the wall than much else - and exhales, a long and drawn out sound.

He can't remember the last time he took a shower that really made him feel clean.

-

When he emerges from the bathroom, hair dripping generously on the nondescript T-shirt he'd pulled from the floor earlier, Isak’s no longer at the desk. He's leaning out the open window instead, elbows propped up on the sill and head sticking out into the night air. He's not wearing a shirt, but Even knows he's not cold. He's always kept the window open on nights like these. Makes him feel more human, he used to say, to turn toward the window in the early hours of the morning and feel the winter against his skin. The wind is ruffling lightly through his hair, and though Even can't see his face he can imagine it just as clearly, the way his eyes and mouth look when he's staring at nothing.

Even casts one last glance around the room - TV still on, playing a commercial break now; empty ramen cup tossed unceremoniously into the bin; gun packed up and nowhere in sight, not a single loose part left behind - before joining Isak at the window.

“Hey,” Even says. Not the most eloquent of openings, but nights like these weren't meant for poets.

“Hey,” Isak answers. He turns his head slightly, enough to catch Even’s eye and shoot him a brief but genuine smile. The difference between just a little while ago and now, when he actually lets himself stop thinking about work for just a little while, is almost palpable. Less tension in his shoulders, a sarcastic spark of humor in his gaze. It's incredibly rare for him to completely let down his guard, of course, but in their line of work that would be a mistake anyway. Even knows he's the same way.

He scoots his way between Isak and the edge of the window, just barely making enough room for himself. Their arms press solidly against each other; the warmth of Isak’s bare shoulder through the thin fabric of his shirt is, oddly, a comfort.

Even hums tunelessly. “You doing okay?”

Isak turns his gaze back to the street below them. “Yeah,” he says. “You?”

It's stupid, exceedingly so, but Even can't stop himself from looking at Isak, drinking him in, memorizing the lines of his face. Isak knows he's doing it, Even is as certain of that as he is that he won't ask why, but Even has a reason ready if he did, and at this point there's nothing stopping him from giving it, if Isak wanted to hear it.

From this close, nothing between them but inches of air, it's impossible to ignore the bags under Isak's eyes, more prominent than they were even a few weeks ago. It's been a rough month for them both. Still, it breaks Even’s heart - “hearts weren't meant for breaking” is another one of his father’s favorite sayings, but then, it's not like Even’s heart has ever listened to him, let alone to anyone else - just to know that they're there. If he could just reach out and soothe them away with the pads of his thumbs. If he could help him sleep better at night. If it were that easy.

Even reaches into his pocket, digs around a bit, makes a small noise of triumph when his hand closes around what he was looking for. He pulls it out and knocks Isak’s arm lightly with his shoulder, holding the thing up loosely between his fingers in a casual offering. 

“Joint?”

Isak glances down, stares at it a bit, then reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a lighter. It's old and silver and solid looking in his hands, a relic from a past life. He thumbs at it once, twice, the clicking noise stark in the silence, before it flickers to life. His pupils shine dimly in the new light, twin flames dancing in the dark. Even holds the joint to the lighter until the end of it catches. Isak closes the cap of the lighter and takes the joint, again in silence; brings it to his mouth, inhales. The smoke that billows out between his lips seems, for a breathless moment, endless.

Usually the quiet would make Even restless as anything, jumping out of his skin and his mind. An emptiness digging into his bones, his lungs; almost painful. Times like these, though, he finds he doesn't mind it. It's necessary, even, to let the silence happen in the moments after they've finished a job. They've never found anything that fit well inside it, anyway, at least in these moments when it feels most potent.

That said, he's glad they managed to snag a room so close to the heart of the city. Makes him feel a little more at ease - or at least like he was capable of feeling that way - when he lets the orange lights and the ceaseless noise of the midnight traffic wash over him like this, like the steady tide of the ocean. Makes him feel more alive in a way he can't quite explain.

Their family has the city in their blood, his father's always said, no matter what city it is they’re in. To that, at least, Even has nothing to say.

“So what're you going to do?” Isak says, offering him the joint between his teeth with a questioning tilt of his head. “After you get out?”

Even shakes his head slightly. Isak shrugs and takes in another drag. This is a game they've often played after jobs, taking turns to come up with increasingly ridiculous answers to the question, mostly to remind themselves that the jobs actually do have a point somewhere in the distant future. Well, for Isak, at least. But Even doesn't mind it, really. He's had his whole life to get used to the idea of never getting out.

“I'll move to the states,” Even says, “and I'll become a barista.”

Isak snorts. “You could be a barista anywhere in the fucking world, and you choose  _ America _ ?”

“I want to be a barista at Starbucks,” Even says.

“That's literally no one's dream job.”

“It's mine,” Even says.

Isak casts a look at him, at that, which he doesn't miss because he was already looking back. Then again this last part is probably what makes Isak glance away so quickly. He didn't mean to scare him away. Instinct almost makes him put a hand on his shoulder and give him a comforting squeeze. Almost.

“What about you?” Even says, but as soon as he says it he wonders if he should have. He meant it lightly, a no strings attached kind of question as it used to be - as things  _ should _ be between them - but even he can't ignore the weight attached to it now, now that Isak's last job is behind them and “after” isn't as far away as it used to be. Honestly, it doesn't even seem real to Even yet, that as early as next week he'll wake up with a completely different partner by his side, struggling to learn an entire new person's habits and quirks and routines when the last are so familiar to him he would know them in his sleep.

A very small part of him doesn't want it to be real. He hates that part of him.

Isak breathes in, breathes out; breathes in again. Even counts in his head, follows the rise and fall of his shoulders with his gaze.

Seven breaths, and Isak says, “I think I'll visit my mom.”

After years of playing this game, there's no way Even could remember all the answers Isak ever gave, but he knows, he  _ knows _ this has never been one of them before now.

“How many years has it been?” Even asks carefully.

Isak breathes out the smoke in his lungs. It's hazy around his face, almost makes him look like something out of a dream, or maybe a blurry nightmare. “How many years have we been working together?”

Even frowns, considering. “Four? Five?”

Isak nods, once. “That long, then,” he says, casual, immensely so. As if he's announcing the weather of the day and not a sentence that carves Even’s chest hollow. That steals his damn breath away.

This was to be expected though, wasn't it? Even has no fucking clue why he thought the answer would be any different.

Everything about this was to be expected.

“Oh,” he manages. The word feels small. 

He feels small, too.

“Even,” Isak says, and he stops, and takes in a breath. “It's not your fault. You didn't - you’re not your father.”

Even swipes his tongue over his lip, suddenly dry. “Isak - ”

“Okay?” It comes out forcefully, so sharp it must take Isak by surprise, too, from the harsh exhale he lets out after he's said it. He bows his head, closing his eyes. “I just - ” Even can hear him swallowing. “I need you to know that.”

Five years they've known each other. Five years of Isak knowing the things Even feels almost better than he does himself. Five years of having this conversation without really having it, to the point where Even no longer has anything to say in response that won't be disputed ten ways to hell and back. Five years still isn't enough time to stop the guilt from burning holes in the back of his throat.

“I’m still responsible,” Even says. The words are ashes on his tongue. “Right?”

Isak flinches, nostrils flaring. “I’m the one who pulls the trigger,” he says, spitting each word out from between his teeth like poison, like coals.

Even swallows down all his denials and reassurances and empty excuses. At this point, Isak has heard them all.

“And I’m the one who tells you when to do it,” he says instead. 

The words don’t burn; they fall.

The pace of Isak’s breaths, now, is hard. Forceful. As if he’s just run a race, and maybe that isn’t even that unfair a comparison, when they’ve both spent their whole lives racing against time.

“It just seems unfair,” Even says quietly. “That's all.”

Isak bites at his lower lip, so hard Even can see the skin around his teeth turn white.

“Yeah,” he says. It's all he says, to that. Even has to fight even harder against his instincts now, the instincts that tell him to  _ reach out, show him he's not alone, make it better, fix the things you broke, touch him, touch him, touch him, _ but there's exactly one word that helps him win the battle, that keeps his arms still at his sides, and Isak said it earlier that night, and it hasn't stopped echoing in his head since.

_ Compromised. _

Isak huffs out a short laugh. “Wasn't all bad, anyway.” He opens his eyes, shooting Even a sidelong look that lingers. “Right?”

All the breath rushes out of Even’s lungs, at that. “Yeah?”

“I met you.” Now Isak tilts his head back toward the sky, the long slender line of his throat exposed. “That's not bad, is it?”

Even swallows. “No?”

“You…” Isak lets out a shaky breath. “You were the best part of this. You always were.”

It's Even's turn, now, to look away.

“You can't say things like that, Isak.”

And his turn to use everything inside him to keep his voice still.

Silence, for a long, long moment.

“Yeah,” Isak says finally. “I know.”

He straightens, putting out the joint on the window sill and reaching for the latch. Even steps back, watches as the window swings shut, watches as Isak turns away.

“At least it'll be over soon,” Isak says.

It's the first time, Even thinks, that either of them have said it, really said it out loud. It hurts more to hear than he thought it would. It shouldn’t hurt, and that's the worst part of all.

“Yeah,” he says. “At least there's that.”

For a moment, maybe two, Isak is still, utterly motionless. For a moment, Even can’t breathe.

Then he practically explodes into motion, hands flying up to his hair and raking through it agitatedly. “We should go to bed soon,” he says, dragging his palms down from the tangle of his hair to his face. From this angle, that’s all Even’s able to see.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, early morning for the trip back to Oslo, right? And you suck at early mornings.”

Isak laughs, or at least, that's the kind of sound Even hopes that it is.

“Fuck you,” he says. His head turns just enough that Even can see the sharp profile of his face illuminated by the neon city lights, and briefly Even thinks he’ll roll his eyes, laugh again like it feels like he should. There’s a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, faint but unmistakable, and honestly it’s fucking gorgeous.

Something shifts, then, something almost imperceptible, something in the set of his naked shoulders, something in the endless depth of his eyes. Even has no name for it, but he knows exactly what it means.

“I…” Isak says. For once he doesn’t look away.

For once, Even doesn’t either. “I know,” he says, and it’s amazing how calm he sounds when he says that, how smooth his voice can be when his whole heart is trembling apart at the cracks.

Isak nods, once. “Yeah,” he whispers, and leaves it at that.

There’s nothing else left for them to say, now.

-

Getting ready for bed is a silent affair between them. That's nothing out of the ordinary, though; it usually is. After the Pixar movie ends Even flicks through the channels until he gets to a late night cooking program, some sort of inane competition edited with tense cinematic music to make everything seem way more dramatic than it really is, but also the only kind of show with knives Even will watch these days, as Isak strips to his boxers and crawls under the covers on the other side of the bed. Even lets his gaze wander over to Isak, a selfish indulgence - the drape of the duvet over the line of his slender waist; the freckles dusting his pale shoulders. His heart feels stuck in his throat. But that's nothing new, either.

He turns the volume down on the television - doesn't turn it off, though, because neither of them should be left to the silence of their thoughts in the dark; that's a lesson they learned long ago - and leans back until his head is tipped back toward the ceiling. Like in the bathroom, it's pockmarked with stains and grime. He wonders if these scars have stories behind them, like his, or Isak’s. Stories worth listening to. Though on that front, he’s not sure if that’s a similarity he can really claim for himself.

Beside him, he can feel Isak shift, lifting his head up to glance at the television screen. A moment of contemplation, then a snort. “You and your fucking cooking programs,” Isak says.

“They’re educational,” Even says. “How else am I supposed to improve my culinary prowess?”

“You don't need to,” Isak says. He's still mostly facing the other wall, but Even doesn't need to see his face to feel the eye roll in his words.

“Well,” Even says. “I wouldn't expect someone as uncultured as  _ you _ to understand.”

Isak kicks Even in the shin. “Shut up.”

“And yet,” Even says thoughtfully, “I'm not hearing a denial.”

“You're not even watching it,” Isak says accusingly. “You're just angsting at the ceiling. I can  _ feel _ you angsting from over here.”

“The ceiling is such a good listener, though,” Even says.

Isak laughs at that, a surprised huff of air, because pretty much all his laughs are like that, pulled out of him by surprise, otherwise kept close to his chest like playing cards. “And there's nothing else in your life that can listen just as well?”

Said lightly, but Even knows what he's getting at. 

“You've listened to me enough,” he says.

“I'd listen to you my whole life if I could,” Isak answers, as plain as the truth.

Amazing, isn't it, how little effort Isak has to make, how few words he has to say before Even’s entire heart feels like a dying star?

“Gross,” Even says past the lump in his throat. “I'm kicking you out of this bed.”

Isak laughs again, a breathy sound. “You could never.”

“You're right,” Even says. “I could never.”

He supposes if there's anything that could make this night feel like their last together, it's this. This tightness in his chest, the kind that keeps the rest of his words - the ones that actually mean something, or at least the ones that try to - trapped in his lungs. There are so many words inside him, so many things he wants to say before he can't anymore, and none of them are enough, and none of them ever will be. Because Isak deserves all the words, all the ones that matter. He deserves more than Even could give him, which is nothing at all.

“Good night, Even,” Isak says.

Even turns to the wall.

“Yeah,” he says. “Good night.”

Closing his eyes, or darkness in the room. It's all the same, in the end. 

It's all the same.

-

At 2:42 in the morning Even jolts awake, hands grasping in the dark for something he has no name for. There’s no time to find it, no time to process anything; there’s only his heart pounding, his thoughts racing as he runs through the catalogue, an almost automatic process - no one's broken in, window’s intact, no police sirens are going off - but that can't be it, there can't be  _ nothing _ , the panic pouring itself into his veins from the bottomless place inside him is too urgent for its cause to be nothing.

He flings himself up out of bed, twists, turns, searching, searching, until finally he registers -

Isak with the covers flung off of him, shaking, eyes closed, body curled tightly into itself; too vulnerable not to be asleep, too tightly wound not to be suffering regardless. Soft, wordless cries from between closed lips, aimed at nothing that's real. Barely making a dent in the silence but hitting Even’s gut like a goddamn train.

Instinct seizes his body before he can stop it, but in this moment he wouldn't want to anyway because fuck protocol, fuck propriety, fuck everything but  _ him _ , _ him, him _ . He gets back into bed and reaches for Isak, reaches blindly in the night, curls his arms around the first thing he feels, warmth and bare, sweaty skin. Slots himself behind him so his chest is pressed to Isak’s back. Hopes desperately Isak can feel the thudding of his runaway heart against his spine, hopes to fucking god it makes a difference.

“Isak,” Even says, voice still hoarse from an uneasy sleep, “Isak, Isak.”

It takes a little while - Even wraps himself around Isak, envelopes him, lets the single word come out of him in a meaningless stream of constancy, and he hopes, he hopes, he hopes - but eventually Isak stills in Even’s grip, a sign that he's woken up, finally. The television, still on, isn't loud enough to mask the ragged pace of Isak’s breaths.

“I…” Isak inhales. “I'm…”

Even tightens his grip around him. Isak doesn't push him away. And he's glad for it, because if he asked for it, Even would listen to him, even if it killed him. Even if it fucking ripped him apart at the seams.

“It's okay,” he whispers. “I get them too.”

He reaches for the remote and turns the TV off. The silence embraces them like an old friend, the adrenaline seeping out of him until he feels loose fitting in his own skin. There's nothing keeping them apart now. Not even air.

Now, Even thinks. Now Isak will ask him to let go. When it's still easy; when the morning has yet to force them in different directions, the way their lives would have gone - should have gone - in a different universe.

A hand nudges his. Fingers brushing against the bones of his knuckles, gently, barely there. They slide themselves into the spaces between his like they've been there before, like they were always meant to be there. They squeeze.

They stay.

That's the moment Even makes a decision. The responsible thing for him to do would be to turn away, walk out of this room and let it be over now, now when there's still time to fix things, still time before the morning comes and Isak pays off the last of his debt to Even’s father and walks away without ever looking back again. And the irresponsible thing for him to do would be to pretend this night will never end.

But the morning is the morning, and now is now. And Isak is Isak, and he wants Even to stay, and nothing in the entire world will change that. And it won’t matter in the morning, but fuck, it matters now, doesn’t it? He’ll make it matter. That's what he decides.

So because it's dark and no one can see, he skims his nose over the nape of Isak's neck. Presses his lips to the patch of skin behind his ear. Closes his eyes at Isak’s slow, trembling exhale.

And he leans his forehead in the warm crook of his shoulder.

And he breathes. 

And he breathes.

And they breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Isak and Even are hired to kill a man and do so: discussion of blood, death, guns, and knives. Both have PTSD, and Isak has a nightmare in the last scene. There's also some recreational drug use (they smoke pot).
> 
> Fun fact! The man Even kills is called "John Grey" because he was "LONG JOHN SILVER" (all caps, just like that) in the draft for a very long time as a placeholder; at the point of choosing a name, we said "fuck it" and went with the closest we could.
> 
> Follow us on tumblr! You can find [Lyd](http://www.boxesfullofthoughts.tumblr.com) and [Sarah's](http://www.canonicallyanxious.tumblr.com) personals, or our [collab blog](http://www.pokeallthelawyers.tumblr.com), where we're hoping to be posting more content in the new year.
> 
> As you might have guessed, this idea kind of got away from us, as they are prone to do. while we have done our best to make this fic stand on its own, we don’t quite yet feel done with the verse yet and hope to return to it in the future, perhaps with more one shots. So keep an eye out for that if you’re interested! (2/5/2018 - this 'verse is now on permanent hiatus. Please see [this post](http://pokeallthelawyers.tumblr.com/post/170539501949/hi-friends-this-is-a-quick-psa-in-case-anyone-is) for details.)
> 
> Also, thank you so much to everyone who's participated in this exchange; it's been amazing. If you haven’t yet, check out all the stuff people have made under the tumblr tag “#SKAM Secret Santa”, there’s some really incredible stuff out there!!
> 
> Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Glorious New Year <3


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